Deadly Revenge (Pearl River #3)

Chapter 11

11

Jenna slapped at a head-diving mosquito, then stilled. At least the temps in the deep woods had cooled from earlier in the day. Much better than in the field where they’d waited for everyone to gather.

She rolled her tight shoulders. Jenna had almost called her dad and cancelled, but a nudge in her spirit changed her mind. Now at an hour before midnight, she wondered if the nudge had been indigestion from the barbecue she’d eaten, because so far the men had been strangely quiet about Joe Slater’s accident, and she hadn’t been able to steer the conversation in that direction. They only wanted to talk about dogs.

A lantern sat beside her, and Jenna moved it a few feet away, hoping it would draw the mosquitos. It and the other lanterns the men had set around lit the area in a soft glow. Later, if they had to trek through the woods, headlamps would provide a light for their path. She glanced enviously across the circle where her dad squatted on his haunches talking to his brother. Even after years of Pilates, she couldn’t squat like that. She couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but there was no mystery as to what he and Sam were discussing—the coon dogs they’d turned loose. And identifying each one by their bark.

She rested against the trunk of a huge oak and breathed in the woodsy scent of Eagle Ridge. Even though she hadn’t heard anything pertaining to Joe Slater, Jenna was glad she’d come. It was an opportunity to try to get her relationship with her dad and uncle back on track, and it was long overdue. At least they were trying to let her live her life on her terms, and not bossing her like she was a ten-year-old.

It wasn’t like she didn’t understand where they were coming from. After her mother died, they along with her grandmother had raised her. Sam and her dad had been her heroes, but they didn’t want to let go. Sure, they were trying to protect her from her mistakes, but her mistakes were hers to make. And one of those mistakes had been to keep them at a distance. She knew that now, driven home by the unexpected deaths of the Slaters today.

Bugle-like barking echoed through the ridge, jerking her from her memories. A rush of excitement coursed through her, just like when she’d been a kid and heard the telltale bark that meant the hounds were tracking their prey.

Her dad shot to a standing position. “They’re on the scent!”

Sam, her uncle, slapped him on the back, and the other men stood as well and nodded in agreement. The bark was different when they had the scent and were trailing a raccoon. Once they had it treed, the bark would become more of a long howl, and if it were hunting season, the men would be traipsing through the woods to the spot where their dogs had the raccoon treed.

But it was June, training time, not hunting time, so tonight Jenna shouldn’t have to hike through the woods even though she’d worn her lace-up Redwings.

When the barking grew fainter, her dad found a log and sat on it while Sam picked up a stick and scratched in the dirt. Her dad looked around. “Todd, why didn’t you bring your dog?”

“She wasn’t feeling too perky, so I left her at home.” Todd Donelson hooked his thumbs in his overalls.

It was hard to believe the man who had reminded her of Ichabod Crane when she was a girl was vice president of the only bank in town.

“Todd, you busy later this week?” Junior Bledsoe asked. He’d been quiet until now, but from what she remembered, the mechanic was usually pretty chatty.

“Depends on what day,” the banker said.

“How about Thursday? I got a beaver dam I need to get rid of, and I know how much you like that kind of stuff.”

“Thursday sounds good.”

Once again Jenna fanned the mosquitos away with her hand as Junior bumped fists with the man. The difference in the two men was almost comical—Donelson still looked like a scarecrow and Junior ... well, he’d been well-fed.

It appeared the men weren’t going to call their dogs in, and Jenna settled back again, recalling other long-ago nights that she’d spent in the woods with her dad, his friends, and their dogs.

“Been a while, Jenna.”

She peered through the silvery moonlight at the speaker, Gordon Marsden, another of her dad’s longtime hunting friends. He was an avid hunter and fisherman, and his love of the outdoors showed in the leathery wrinkles in his face. Earlier, he’d been the first to arrive with his dogs at the field where everyone was supposed to meet. She still hadn’t gotten used to the retired postal worker looking like an aging hippie or the fact that he had a ponytail longer than hers.

“Yeah, it has,” she said. Like twenty years at least. Suddenly she missed those tomboy years when she’d roamed the hills with this group and their dogs. Jenna had always preferred the training to the actual hunt, even though it was important to control the raccoon population.

“So, what’s the word on the Slaters’ deaths?” her uncle asked.

Jenna turned toward Sam. “You know I can’t share anything about the investigation.”

“Then what’s the use of having a Russell County deputy in the family?” he snapped. “Come on, Jen, you can give us something .”

“Leave it alone, Sam,” her dad said. “She’s not going to tell you anything.”

“You trying to tell me what to do, Randy?” Her uncle glowered at her dad.

And that was why sometimes she wanted to shy away from Sam—he was always so testy. It was almost like he was looking for ways to start a quarrel.

“Come on, Sam.” Gordon pulled a silver flask from his overalls, uncapped it, and took a generous sip before handing it off to her uncle. “She’s as stubborn as you are, so you might as well leave her be.”

Jenna frowned. Sam was drinking again? Hadn’t it cost him enough? And she never remembered her dad’s friends drinking on a run before. Russell County wasn’t dry, and they were on private property, so it wasn’t illegal, but still ...

It didn’t matter that it was off-season and none of the men carried their rifles—she had no doubt that every one of them had a pistol of some sort in their front pocket or maybe even an ankle holster.

The drinking made her uneasy—alcohol and hunting were two things that didn’t mix. Especially when it included her hotheaded uncle—add a rifle, and that spelled even more trouble.

Sam took a swig from the bottle and handed it to the man beside him before he leaned against a broad oak tree. “Sure do miss huntin’ in the valley.”

At least his tone held a wistful note now instead of anger.

“Yeah,” Todd murmured. “Haven’t seen any good come from what they did, either. Wasn’t that dam supposed to bring in industry?”

Finally, maybe they would talk about Joe Slater and any enemies he might have.

“Bring in industry?” A harsh laugh broke the silence. “You’re joking, right?”

Jenna turned toward Junior. There was still talk in the county about how Sheriff Stone disarmed the then-farmer and took him to jail for threatening the surveyors when they crossed his family’s land.

Junior turned the flask up, then coughed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s stuff’s strong.” He screwed the cap back on the flask. “Y’all know with cost overruns there wasn’t no money left to fix up anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Jenna asked. Her uncle had opened the door for her to ask about something besides dogs without it sounding like she was interrogating them. The way Junior had emphasized cost overruns sounded like he’d meant kickbacks.

Junior stilled. Across from him, Sam snorted. “Forgot you had a dep-u-ty here, didn’t you?”